


Sweet and Salty

by intellexual_asexual



Series: Ego Short Stories [13]
Category: CrankGameplays - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, again yall are SLEEPING on the Cranks smh, i mean its a blank fic what did yall expect, ig even though its not really described, it was time to let it move out kdjsfhksh, kjghdlhkd ok i made a silly fic time for some sadTM, no beta we die like actor mark, no i am not sorry about this, oh um yeah warnings, this fic has been living rent free in my head for the past YEAR, wait fuck i forgot some tags sdfjhskfl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29023437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intellexual_asexual/pseuds/intellexual_asexual
Summary: There's a new ego at the Cranks', but Blank barely leaves his room. So, in an attempt to meet him, this new ego writes to him.
Relationships: BlankGamePlays & Mrs. Thomson
Series: Ego Short Stories [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2106381
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	Sweet and Salty

**Author's Note:**

> Oh God no my entire works page is going to be infiltrated with the Cranks by the end of the week kjskhjsgdf. But I honestly don't mind, they're pretty swag and I love writing them. Anyway, enjoy!

BlankGamePlays is not the happiest person ever. In fact, he’s quite the opposite: Blank is the saddest person ever. As the physical manifestation of Ethan Nestor’s depression, anxiety, and doubt, he’d have to be. But that doesn’t mean he _wants_ to be.

Blank’s daily activities consist of staring at the wall and trying not to fade away. He knows it’s not possible, for him at least. It’s as if the fans have latched onto him. They create so much centered around him that he’s certain he won’t ever fade.

But today he most definitely wanted to. He guessed Nestor was having a rough day, as Blank had to stop himself from grabbing the scissors more times than usual. Blank was currently curled up on the floor next to his bed, begging himself to stop thinking, to stop feeling. He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want this. But that was who Nestor made him be, and Blank finally caved and snatched the scissors from his small desk drawer. 

He was careful not to drip the black blood on his blue carpet.

...

It was almost exactly an hour after that when Blank had to curl up again. He hated this, and he hated Nestor.

No, Blank hated himself. He hated himself for not standing up to Nestor, for not forcing him to change how he felt, how he thought. He hated himself for acting like this, like some big baby. Blank was being a baby, that was it! He was being a pathetic little baby about his feelings, his thoughts, his actions. He needed to… toughen himself up.

And so he reached again for the scissors.

~ ꕤꕤꕤꕤꕤ ~

Blank didn’t know what time it was, or what day it was, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was the soft knocking on his bedroom door.

None of the Cranks knocked like that. Perhaps the quietest knocker, and person in general, in the house was Bernice, but even she tended to get overexcited and loud sometimes. So this quiet tapping on Blank’s door came as a surprise.

He unfurled himself and stood up, not bothering to wipe the tears that stained his face. (There were always going to be more, so why bother trying to get rid of them?)

He was about to tell them that they could come in, but he stopped when he saw something slide under his door. Two things, actually.

He froze like a deer in headlights, eyeing the items with slight suspicion. He heard the other person outside the door sigh and walk away, and only when he couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore did he dare approach what they slid into his room.

He sat in front of his door and examined the items. One of them was a sugar cookie, which looked to be homemade and hand wrapped in some fancy parchment paper. The cookie was iced with…

Spencer! It was a Spencer cookie! Blank might be the saddest Crank in the house, but he couldn’t help but smile at the dog’s sugary face. All of the Cranks loved Spencer, and Blank tried to get out of his room for more than a minute when the pup visited.

The Spencer on the sugar cookie looked adorable, and Blank felt extremely bad about biting it’s head off first as he looked at the other item.

It was… a letter. Addressed to him.

He wondered who could possibly be sending him mail, but he found his answer on the return address, which was the same as his own. The upper left corner of the back of the envelope read, in shaky cursive: “Mrs Thomson-GamePlays(?), 420 Ego Street, Palm Desert CA, 92211”

The writer… lived with him? They were a Crank? This ‘Mrs. Thomson’ was _in his house_?

Blank couldn’t possibly believe that they didn’t just talk to him through the door, but he carefully tore open the envelope anyway. He placed the Spencer cookie, now decapitated, back onto the paper it was wrapped in as he opened up the letter.

It was written in that same shaky cursive, and on simple lined paper. It read:

_Hello Blank GamePlays!_

_My name is Mrs. Thomson, but you are free to call me anything you like, dear. I was told by your friends that you don’t much like socializing, so I wrote this letter for you! I wanted to introduce myself to you in a nice way, and without making you upset. I hope I get to see you sometime! Your friends told me that you don’t come out much, but why?_

_No, wait, you don’t have to answer me, dear. That was a bit rude. I’m sorry. Here, I’ll start over! Your friends told me that you don’t come out much, but I hope that you can come out sometime to see me! I don’t want to pressure you, sweetie, so if you don’t want to that’s alright._

_I hope you liked your cookie! I tend to bake a lot and I happened to make some extras, so I gave you one. I hope I iced that puppy right, your friends told me how much you like him and I thought it would be sweet to put him on your cookie!_

_I’ll leave you be now, but I’ll be back sometime with some more sweets. Your friends told me you don’t eat much, and sugar cookies aren’t the best food for an empty stomach but it will have to do. I don’t want to crack your door open without your permission, dear, and your friends told me that you’re not good with words, so I’ll just put it under the door for you._

_I hope you have a good day!_

_Sincerely, Mrs. Thomson_

Blank got to the end of the letter. He didn’t realize he had started crying again until a single inky tear dripped onto the paper. He tried wiping it away with his sweatshirt sleeve, but it only made the black smear bigger. He started crying harder as he kept trying to wipe away the tear, but now most of the letter was covered in black. He pushed it away and put his head between his knees.

What was wrong with him? He just messed up everything he touched, didn’t he?

Blank started to hyperventilate, but caught sight of the headless Spencer cookie. He lifted his head and eased his breathing. _No, I’m not a fuckup. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not._

He stared at the cookie until his breath went back to relatively normal. He took a deep breath and reached for the letter again. He could fix this. Somehow. But not right now.

Blank slid the letter back in the envelope and placed it on top of his desk. He walked back over to the cookie and crouched down in front of it. He didn’t want to eat it anymore.

He carefully wrapped the cookie back in the paper, making sure not to smear the icing. But at this point, it was bound to be ruined since—

_No. That was an accident. I’m not a fuckup._

Blank placed the wrapped treat next to the letter. He stood there and looked at the two items for a long time, thinking. This new Crank had just tried to reach out to him, to meet him, and what was he going to do about it?

What he always did. Blank leaned back against his bed and sighed. He started to cry, his subconscious arguing with itself. He was tired of his own head. He was tired of existing, he was tired of not being social. He was tired of being such a useless piece of—

_No, I’m not. I’m not a fuckup, I’m not. I’m not, I’m not, I’M NOT!_

Blank put his hands over his ears, trying to block out his thoughts. It didn’t work, of course.

...

Blank hated this, and he hated Nestor.

No, Blank hated himself. He hated himself for not standing up to Nestor, for not forcing him to change how he felt, how he thought. He hated himself for acting like this, like some big baby. Blank was being a baby, that was it! He was being a pathetic little baby about his feelings, his thoughts, his actions. He needed to… toughen himself up.

And so he reached again for the scissors.

~ ꕤꕤꕤꕤꕤ ~

The next day, Blank woke up on the floor. He didn’t remember going to sleep. He didn’t remember making that large, black stain on his carpet. He didn’t remember wrapping his arms half-heartedly with gauze.

He didn’t remember when Mrs. Thomson slipped another letter under the door.

Blank started to sit up before hissing in pain. He must have dug deeper than usual.

He resorted to scooting over to the letter, cautiously keeping his arms out and off of the carpet. (Pressure would make it worse at this point, but who’s to say he didn’t deserve it?)

Blank gingerly picked it up, and noticed there was a sticker on the back of it. It was of a cat, and it was hanging onto a branch with the classic phrase “Hang in there!”

Oh, he’d hang all right—

_No. Shut up._

Blank did not feel like going into another fit of unconsciousness right now. Maybe later, but not right now.

He opened up the envelope and found another piece of lined paper. This letter read,

_Hello again Blank!_

_I think I will keep writing letters to you every day. I like writing them, even if this is only the second one, ha! Since you don’t come out much, I want to tell you what your friends were up to today. Oh, wait, before you start reading that, make sure to take a bite of that cookie, dear! And drink some water! I’ll know if you haven’t, sweetie, a grandmother always knows._

Blank stopped reading and realized that Mrs. Thomson had sent another cookie under the door. He unwrapped it and found a gear shaped sugar cookie with his full name frosted around it. Blank started to cry again and sat the cookie and letter down before he could mess them up.

He was able to control himself and take a bite of the cookie. He didn’t understand why Mrs. Thomson wanted him to eat, but he didn’t want to discover if she could actually find out if he didn’t. Besides, her cookies were absolutely _delicious_.

He looked around his room for a stray water bottle, but he didn’t find one. Damnit. He was sure he had one with at least a sip left in here, where did it go?

Wait, there it was. It had rolled under the bed, and it was fuller than Blank remembered it being but he decided not to question it. He took a small sip as he sat back in front of the letter and cookie.

He read through the rest of the letter, which told him that Bernice had tried to give Yahoo a makeover again with disastrous consequences. Including a failed baptism of the poor android by Father Ethan.

Blank just rolled his eyes at this information, and quietly laughed as he read Mrs. Thomson’s vivid description of Yahoo’s new (and apparently permanent) ‘look.’

Blank stopped smiling, though, as he got to the last paragraph.

_Blank, sweetie, I want to let you know that I’m here for you. I heard screaming from your room last night, and your friends waved it off. They told me that you do that sometimes, dear, and I want to let you know that I am not going to stand for any of you being sad. If you want to talk, I’m here. Look at me, offering help to someone who doesn’t even know what I look like! Well, it’s true, I’ll be here for you no matter what, sweetie. Take care of yourself, alright?_

_I hope you have a good day!_

_Sincerely, Mrs. Thomson_

Blank sat the letter down. He had been… screaming? Oh God, she said the others heard it often. How long had he been doing that? Losing control of himself, letting his emotions take control of him?

...

Blank hated this, and he hated Nestor.

No, Blank hated himself. He hated himself for not standing up to Nestor, for not forcing him to change how he felt, how he thought. He hated himself for acting like this, like some big baby. Blank was being a baby, that was it! He was being a pathetic little baby about his feelings, his thoughts, his actions. He needed to… toughen himself up.

And so he reached again for the scissors.

~ ꕤꕤꕤꕤꕤ ~

Blank and Mrs. Thomson repeated this process for the next couple of weeks. Which turned into months. Which then turned into a full year since that first letter.

It was nearing an entire month since Blank had last left his room. He kept thinking back on Mrs. Thomson’s latest letters, and realizing that he had never told her about himself. It was always “ _Your friends told me_ ” or “ _I heard_.”

Blank didn’t know what to do or how to fix this, so naturally he did the only thing he knew how: he cried, and he shut himself down.

He hadn’t opened any of Mrs. Thomson’s letters for the past three days, nor had he eaten any of the treats she slid under the door. He felt so bad that he had never shown her what he looked like, what he felt like, and that she assumed he was just a scared little boy.

(But was that really far from the truth? Blank _was_ a scared little boy, so full of sadness and panic that it’s a wonder he didn’t just explode. He often wished he did.)

_No. Stop. No you don’t._

(But he did! He did! He often wished he could just disappear, poof out of existence, what good was he doing here anyway?)

_No. Shut up._

Blank curled up tighter from his position on the floor. The blue carpet turned black again as Blank silently cried. (He just wanted to be gone, to die. He wanted to die.)

(Blank wanted to die.)

_NO, STOP, SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP—_

And suddenly his entire brain was filled with white and purple static, with visions of sunshine and Spencer and a game of fetch. He saw Nestor—no, wait that was him. He saw himself cuddling up with the dog and baking in the kitchen and crying. He was crying, but he wasn’t sad. He was happy. Oh, he was so incredibly happy! He was happy to be by Spencer, to be out of his room!

But then Blank was back in his room. He shook his head, his thoughts scrambled and not nearly as monotone as usual. What just happened? What had he been previously thinking about, again?

Blank couldn’t remember, and he didn’t want to remember. It was probably sad, and he couldn’t let that get in the way of what he was about to do.

He had figured out a way to tell Mrs. Thomson about himself. He searched through his desk for a pen, an envelope, and a piece of paper. 

...And he reached again for the scissors.

~ ꕤꕤꕤꕤꕤ ~

Mrs. Thomson did not like using her ability. It pained her to manipulate others, but it pained her even more to see others being hurt.

So she used them on Blank.

That boy hadn’t been eating anything she sent through the door for the past three days, and she could tell. His room radiated an energy that Mrs. Thomson despised, a sort of aura that leaves you with “What if”s and “How come”s. An energy that brought despair to whomever it touched, to _whatever_ it touched. But Mrs. Thomson wasn’t the frail old lady that the Cranks thought she was, and so she pushed through it in favor of saving Blank from himself.

She only did it for a few seconds, hoping that the vision would make him see sense. And it did, as she heard the shuffling of an envelope and the quiet scratching of pen on paper from behind the door. Mrs. Thomson turned and walked back to the kitchen, and smiled as she pulled out her sugar cookie recipe.

It was a few hours later that she returned to Blank’s door with a cookie and a letter. The cookie looked like the one she first gave him, on that first day that she arrived. She almost dropped it, though, as she gasped at what was now by the door.

...That was quite the envelope. 

Beside the rather large and full envelope was a small box. It was just cardboard, and it wasn’t wrapped except for the pink paper bow taped on top.

Mrs. Thomson gently slid the cookie and letter under the door and picked up her two gifts. She decided to open them there, in case Blank wanted to see how she reacted. She stepped to the side of the door in case Blank tried to get out and opened the letter first.

Inside were multiple sheets of paper. Only one was lined, and the rest were white copy papers. She took them out and flipped the copy papers over. She gasped again.

The drawings were… beautiful. Blank really had an eye for dogs.

On the papers were several hand drawings of Spencer. Spencer sitting, Spencer laying down, Spencer in the air with a Frisbee. They were all amazing, and if Mrs. Thomson didn’t know better she would have said they were black and white photographs.

On one of the white papers, though, Blank hadn’t drawn Spencer. He had drawn a person, and titled it, “Me ig.”

It was just a head shot, but Mrs. Thomson could clearly see his sad, black eyes, and the tears that rolled down his cheeks. He was rather pale, so much so that he was almost pure white. His faded blue hair was the only colorful thing in the picture, besides the Spencer doodle on Blank’s sweatshirt.

Mrs. Thomson thought he looked adorable, and she wanted to wipe his tears away as she looked at the lined paper.

Blank’s handwriting and grammar was… atrocious, to say the least, but Mrs. Thomson would coach him later. The letter was short, and it read,

_hi mrs. thomson_

_im sorry for not replying to u ealrier. i hope u like the drawings of spence. hes a good pupper. thank u for the cookeis and for taikng care of me. i also hope u like whats in the box._

_sincreley blank_

Mrs. Thomson was touched. She was starting to get misty-eyed as she put the drawings and letter back in the envelope. She picked up the box and carefully pried it open.

Inside was a string necklace with a few small gears strung through it. Mrs. Thomson looked closer and realized the gears were welded together. There were four of them, and they were engraved with the letters G, R, A, and N.

Mrs. Thomson let out a squeak of surprise and happiness, and immediately looped it around her neck. She held it up and looked at it more, her smile growing bigger by the second.

She froze when she heard the door click open.

She turned to the door and tried to look as uncurious as possible as Blank poked his head out slowly.

He wore the smallest smile Mrs. Thomson had ever seen, but it was a smile nonetheless. She smiled back reassuringly before Blank fully opened the door.

“...Hi.”

His voice was small, too, as small as his smile, and it held so much emotion that Mrs. Thomson wanted to hug him immediately as he started crying again.

Instead she kindly said, “Hello Blank. Did you like your treat today, dear?”

Mrs. Thomson was quiet and patient as Blank took a while to respond. “...Yeah. I… I always like them, Gran.”

Mrs. Thomson could not fight the urge anymore as she wrapped Blank in a tight hug. She was crying, too, but they were happy tears. Her eyes widened as she realized she didn’t ask him if she could touch him, and she pulled away.

But to her surprise, Blank quickly pulled her back, burying his face in her shoulder. His tears were going to stain Mrs. Thomson’s shawl, but she couldn’t care less. They were tears of joy, of hope, and Mrs. Thomson could tell that Blank was incredibly happy as she patted him warmly on the back.

**Author's Note:**

> Mrs. Thomson is a grandmother to everyone, but since Blank is the youngest (um uh hes technically the oldest by creation date but he acts younger when hes not sad so there) she focuses on him more. I find their interactions to be adorable kdjhglkd.  
> As always, make sure to leave a comment if you liked this work, and don't be afraid to request another!


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